The Unlikeliest Relationships in Arda
by Erwen Brogiel
Summary: One-shots of crack pairings. Nimrodel/Took, Maedhros/Amlach, Curufin/Amarië, Ulmo/Nienor, Míriel/Anárion, Gollum/Goldberry, Orodreth/Thuringwethil, Aragorn/Finduilas, Uinen/Huan, Halbarad/Lobelia, Nerdanel/Celeborn, Glaurung/Morwen
1. Simplicity: NimrodelTook ancestor

**What This Is:** a collection of really weird pairings starring characters from Lord of the Rings and the Silmarillion. Do not expect continuity; do expect great variation in tone and family-friendlyness. Written mostly as a challenge to myself, because I am unable to resist a challenge. (If you choose to read that last sentence as an invite to post a review telling me to write Gollum/Goldberry... oh dear, I think that could work. I might actually have to write it. But I am not going to swear by Manwë and Varda and Eru Ilúvatar to accept all suggestions.)

**What This Is Not:** meant to be taken seriously.

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><p>"It was often said (in other families) that long ago one of the Took ancestors must have taken a fairy wife." - <em>The Hobbit<em>

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><p><strong>Simplicity<strong>

I cannot remember how long I wandered alone in the wilderness. My memories are all hazy; the last thing I remember clearly is how one of the guards stopped, and looked up, like a wild animal that has caught the scent of a predator. After that, it is all a blur: the fight, the flight, the long years of walking alone in unknown lands. Do you understand how confusing unfamiliar surroundings can be for one who has lived in a forest where she knew every tree?

Perhaps you do. I can see that you, too, are a lover of things familiar. Your tools, your clothes; they are all old and worn, though never shabby. Everything you own was made to last. Simple things, perhaps - but well-made, well-loved, well-used, and what could be better?

I remember how your strange little people looked at me when you first brought me to your dwellings. They wondered who I was. I wondered what you were. I thought you might be dwarves, but who has heard of beardless dwarves? I still don't know what you are. Perhaps it doesn't matter.

You live in holes in the ground. I cannot. I have never understood how the Sindar could survive living in caves. I remember the hurt look on your face when I refused to enter your house, and how it melted into a look of kind concern when you saw how frightened I was. You brought out a blanket and I spent the night in a tree. The next morning, you started building a treehouse. Everything seems so simple to you, doesn't it? You find a mad elf-maid who sleeps in trees: you build a tree-house. So simple.

I remember my earlier life. I remember my lover. Things were never simple with him. I hated him at first, as I hated his people; those who came over the mountains and brought unrest to our peaceful lands. Even after my heart turned to love him, I hated him. I loved him for who he was: my darling Amroth. I hated him for what he was: a Sinda and a king. I do not think I ever understood him completely. I know he often did not understand me.

You smile when I talk to you, even though you do not understand the words. I need to learn your language, or teach you mine. I think I shall try to teach you mine. It is a beautiful language, the fairest in the world: it sounds like the song of a silver stream, like mallorn leaves in the wind, like a forest dreaming under the stars. Yes, I shall teach you my language. I am curious to see what your tongue shall make of it.

You smile and nod when I tell you this, and I wonder if you understand - not the words, but me.

I think you do.

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><p>Okay, the timeline is messed up, but after all, no one knows exactly when the hobbits settled around Anduin, and Nimrodel doesn't know how long she was lost... so you probably can't prove it didn't happen. You also have to assume that Nimrodel somehow ended up going north after she was lost, but maybe her sense of direction really was that bad. Mine is.<p> 


	2. Anything For You: MaedhrosAmlach

Who on earth is Amlach? Amlach is a very, very minor character from the Silmarillion. During a council of Men, he is impersonated by an agent of Morgoth. This makes him angry so he declares that he now has a quarrel with the Dark Lord until the end of his life and then goes north and enters into the service of Maedhros.

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><p><strong>Anything For You<strong>

"He will heal completely, my lord. There may be some scars, of course. I am not familiar with the recovering rate for humans, but I think he will be able to resume his duties in a few weeks' time."

"Then you have done very well," said Maedhros. "I was sure his wounds were fatal when we brought him in. Is he conscious? May I speak to him?"

"I feared the worst as well, but it seems that humans are not quite as fragile as we thought. Yes, he is conscious, and you can speak to him, but do not tire him too much. He needs to rest."

"I assure you I will be brief."

The healer nodded, and opened the door to the chamber. It was a small room, undecorated and furnished only with a bed. The last rays of the sun shone through the window and were mirrored in the golden hair of the man in the bed.

"No more than half an hour," said the healer and closed the door behind Maedhros.

"My lord," said the man in the bed, smiling. "I am honoured."

"Honoured? You have won honour today, no doubt," said Maedhros. "I daresay there will be songs about you at the celebrations tonight. You were most valiant in the battle. Tell me, Amlach, are all of your people as reckless as you are?"

"You are displeased with me, my lord?" The smile had vanished.

"No. I merely wish you would be more careful. I do not wish to lose so accomplished a warrior."

"Fear not, my lord," said Amlach cheerfully. "I shall soon be fine."

"So the healers have told me. Nevertheless. Do be careful."

"I am already careful, my lord. But battle is by its nature risky, and I cannot eliminate that danger. Surely you do not expect me to abstain from fighting?"

Maedhros hesitated.

"Why do you fight, Amlach?"

Amlach stared at the elf.

"I have a quarrel with the Dark Lord which will last to the end of my life. I have told you this already, my lord."

"And so you would spend the rest of your life in this grim fortress, away from your own people? Would you not rather life in peace in the south, and take a wife?"

"No, my lord," said Amlach, smiling. "I would rather serve you."

"Indeed?" said Maedhros. "Then I must tell you again to be careful. You are of no use to me if you are dead."

"Were you that worried about me, my lord? We men are made of sterner stuff than you think. I shall not die of these wounds."

Maedhros expression softened.

"I was worried about you, Amlach. In the short time you have lived here, I have developed a considerable affection for you."

"As have I for you, my lord. I hoped to prove my loyalty to you on the battlefield today."

"You did, Amlach. You did indeed. Next time, prove you care about me by endeavouring to avoid getting killed. It did not seem to be your priority today."

Amlach laughed.

"Whatever I say, my lord, you twist my words to come to this. Very well. If my death would hurt you, I shall try not to die."

"Your death would hurt me grievously, Amlach."

"Then I will be more careful the next time. Your wish is my command."

"Indeed?" said Maedhros. A smile had emerged on his face. Even the grim lord of Himring could smile in the presence of Amlach.

"Yes, my lord. I would do anything to serve you."

"Anything?"

Amlach looked deep into Maedhros eyes, holding his gaze long enough to make his intentions quite clear.

"Anything, my lord."

Maedhros bent over him and kissed him lightly on the forehead. It could have been nothing but a display of affection between friends.

"When you have healed, I shall hold you to that promise."

"Then I will try to get better as fast as I can, my lord."

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><p>I'm sorry, Maedhros. I really am. I just thought it would be interesting to write a slash story about you that didn't feature Fingon, your brothers or Morgoth and various servants of his. I'm sorry.<p>

You know, after writing this I am surprised that there aren't more fanfics about Amlach. This is a guy who decides that he has a personal vendetta against Morgoth and goes north to enter into the service of Maedhros, where I would guess he has to face some prejudice from the elves. I'm sure he was badass, too - the House of Hador in general seem to be. It would make a good story.


	3. Amarië's Lament: CurufinAmarië

Have you too wondered why Finrod and Amarië didn't get married before the Darkening of Valinor? Well, here's an explanation for you.

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><p><strong>Amarië's Lament<strong>

Two trees there were once, one shining golden and the other silver; and two lights there are now, chasing each other across the sky; and two loves there will always be in my life, as different from each other as night and day. One was light, the other dark - in mind as well as in appearance. And you may think the choice between darkness and light is easy, child of the sun, but it was not so for me.

I loved Finrod. I never doubted that. It would have been easier to stop breathing than to stop loving him. He was the light; he was good and pure, and my love for him was as a slow river. Deep, yes, and powerful, but so tranquil that its force was doomed to be constantly underestimated.

I am an elf. We awoke under the stars, it is said, and we have never loved the sun as you humans do. Even so, I think you can understand the charm of darkness. It is the mystery, the strangeness, the way it gives free rein to the imagination. The shadows constantly change their shapes and the sharp lines between things are erased, as in a dream.

Such was my second love. I cannot remember if I ever thought he loved me. I know now that he never did. But he enchanted me, he intrigued me; if he led me on or if I imagined it I cannot say, for his words could always be interpreted in more than one way; they twisted around each other, changing their meaning until the only thing I was sure of was that they were beautiful.

Finrod loved me, I knew that, and I loved him. Yet I never spoke to him of marriage. I never felt the need to. He would always be there, always reliable, always good and kind and loving. One day I would marry him, of course, but... the other. I did not want to lose him. If I married Finrod, then that would be the definite end to what we had, whatever that was. It might have been nothing but a dream, but even so I did not want it to end.

I was wrong. I thought the light would always be there; I thought Finrod would always be there - but the nightfall came and he left. I postponed my choice until there no longer was one. I wanted everything and I lost it all. I was a fool.

I miss them both. I miss Finrod and I miss Curufin.

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><p>Personally I suspect Curufin flirted with her just because he found Finrod the Flawless bloody annoying. Seems like the kind of thing he would do.<p> 


	4. The Tale of Ulmo and Nienor

Everything is better with rhymes. Especially when you throw in a bit of alliteration. And when even that doesn't change the fundamental bizarreness of your work, you blame the Teleri.

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><p><strong>The Tale of Ulmo and Nienor<br>**

written down by me, Erwen Brógiel, who heard it in a tavern from a Telerin bard whose name I can't remember because I was somewhat inebriated at the time. But I'm pretty sure I remembered the song correctly. Well, all the important bits, anyway; there were probably a few verses describing the beauty of the sea - that's Telerin poetry for you.

"O waters of the forest, whither do you go?"  
>"To the South and to the Sea; thither do we flow."<br>"Will you take me with you, will you set my spirit free?"  
>"We will take you with us; we will bear you to the Sea."<p>

Swiftly ran the river, the fair stream Sirion,  
>And bore with it the daughter of Húrin Thalion.<br>From the northern forest to the southern shore;  
>Out of tales of mortal men passed golden Nienor.<p>

To the Bay of Balar, where Ossë once would sing,  
>Came Ulmo, Lord of Waters, the ever-listening.<br>Nienor he found, and he asked what drove her there:  
>What madness, or what sorrow to great for her to bear?<p>

"Why do you seek to slay yourself, misguided child of men?"  
>"I am the child of Húrin and Morwen Eledhwen;<br>Morgoth took my father, and cursed him and his kin,  
>And I became my brother's bride; I seek an end of sin."<p>

The Lord of Waters, hearing the anguish of her voice  
>Had not the heart to blame her for her unhappy choice.<br>His heart was filled with pity, and love from pity grew  
>And love caused him to say to her: "You shall be named anew!"<p>

"Mourning were you, Nienor, child born in bitter years;  
>and Níniel he called you, his fair maiden of tears;<br>but I shall name you Neniel, a maid of water pure,  
>and in my halls beneath the sea your grief shall find a cure."<p>

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><p>And Túrin Master of Angst hooked up with Nienna, because he liked weeping girls.<p>

Actually, in an earlier version of the mythology, Tolkien had Túrin and Nienor become purified and join the ranks of the Valar (which would explain Túrin's presence in Dagor Dagorath). It makes sense that they would marry the two remaining single Valar.


	5. Falling: MírielAnárion

I've just realized that although elves are pretty much incapable of having affairs, there are plenty of humans in Arda who can. Oh the possibilities...

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><p><strong>Falling<strong>

There is a bruise on her shoulder. It would normally be hidden by her hair, but now I can see it, because she is leaning forward over her book; she always looks as if she's trying to bury her face in the book when she's reading. That ugly blueish-starting-to-become-yellow mark doesn't seem to belong on her porcelain skin. There are others, too. All over her body. I have seen them all.

She looks up and notices me staring at her. For a moment, before her face resumes its usual cold expression, I can see a flash of anger in her eyes. She must have seen the pity in mine, then. I know how she hates being pitied.

"It was your brother who stole that fruit," she says. Trying to hurt me.

"If he had done so, he would have committed high treason," I say.

"That makes two of you, then," she says.

Well, I can't argue with that.

She rises and walks over to the window.

"It is so quiet," she says.

It isn't. There are seagulls crying outside, as always. But I know what she means. I can feel it in the air, too: the calm before the storm.

She leans out through the window.

"Careful, my lady," I say. "You might fall."

She turns around. Although she is no longer young, she is still the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.

"I am already falling," she says.

"I want you to come with me," I say. "My father has ships ready to leave in the harbour."

"So he does," she says, with a bitter smile on her face. "And do you think he wants me to come?"

I don't know what to answer. He doesn't know her as I do. He, and the others, see only the queen. She would rather have them think that she shares her husband's desires than show any sign of weakness. And I have never told my father about us. I have never told anyone. Nobody suspects us - I am only a boy, after all.

"I want you to come with me," I say again. She doesn't seem to hear me. She's staring at something I can't see.

"My father wanted to go back to the past," she says. "But I cannot go back; it is too late for that. And I cannot go forward. There is no future."

When I was little, I always wondered how Beren could fall in love with Lúthien the first time he saw her. Now, whenever the Lay of Leithian is told, I imagine that Tinúviel has her face. And I no longer wonder.

"I want you to come with me," I say, a third time. She picks up the book she was reading.

"Do you know what this is?"

"The Fall of Gondolin," I say.

"Yes," she says. "Have you read it?"

"Naturally," I say.

"Most youths on this island would have answered 'no'," she says. "The old tales are no longer popular... Tell me, did you understand why Turgon chose not to leave his city?"

I have never thought about that before.

"No," I say, after considering it for a moment. "He should have gone with his daughter and her family. They loved him and needed him. Gondolin was already lost. He should have saved what was left of its people."

Her only answer is to shake her head. A slow and strangely sad gesture. I don't understand what it is supposed to mean.

"I want you to promise me something," she says.

"My lady has only to command."

"Promise me you will go with your father and brother, when the time comes. Promise me you will marry some nice girl and have children with her. Promise me you will live."

I don't know what I hoped she would say, but it was certainly not that.

"Promise me," she says. It sounds more like an order than a plea. It doesn't matter; whether she is my queen or my lover, I could never deny her anything.

"I promise," I say.

I know it is futile, but I cannot resist to tell her one last time.

"I still want you to come with me."

"I am the queen," she says. She looks as cold and distant as the stars, and just as beautiful. "Everything else he could take from me, but not that. I am the queen of Númenor, and I will remain so."

Oh Míriel, my love, your pride will be your death.

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><p>Well, that was kind of depressing. And didn't seem all that unrealistic, either. I'll make the next one more outrageous, promise. Also, I just realized I haven't said thanks for the reviews yet, so I'd like to take the opportunity to do that now. Thanks for the reviews, everyone!<p> 


	6. Chasing Gold: GollumGoldberry

I promised you something ridiculously unlikely, didn't I? Well, never let it be said that I break my word.

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><p><strong>Chasing Gold<strong>

Sméagol had always loved the river. For as long as he could remember, it had been constantly singing in the background while he went on his business: lullabies at night, upbeat marching songs while he was working, a complement to the violins when there was dancing, and songs of sympathy and comfort when he was sad. And it seemed that the river loved him too, for he was always lucky when he went fishing, which he did often; sometimes together with his friend Déagol, but just as often alone. But although Sméagol liked fishing, he dreamed of catching something else. Something more. Her.

He had seen her for the first time a spring morning. The air had been chilly, still with something of winter in it, but the pale sun peaking above the trees promised that the day would become warmer. Mist was rising from the river, and all the world was quiet and still. Only the song of the river was there, as it always was. And then he heard it: something more than the river, yet similar to it. Someone was singing. The voice was as clear as water, and it was of water it sang; but it was not only singing about the river, it... _was_ the river. Sméagol could not explain it better than that.

And then he saw her. She was sitting on the riverbank, bathing her feet in the water. He had thought his heart would stop there and then, and in truth he would not have minded so much if it had; he would have died happy, looking at the most beautiful thing in the world. For he had never seen anything as precious as this creature, whatever she was. Her bare feet were white as snow, and her hair glittered as gold in the morning sun; her figure was slender, and clad in a raiment that shifted in every possible hue of blue and grey and green. The mist that surrounded her lent a touch of unreality to the whole scene; she appeared to have descended from another world, and yet there could be no doubt that this was exactly where she belonged, here by the river, singing in harmony with it, telling the story of every single drop of water in it with that clear enchanting voice.

He wanted to speak to her, but he could not move his tongue; he was unable to do anything but sit there and listen until the singing stopped. After that, he noticed her many times; sometimes he caught a glimpse of her golden hair among the trees, sometimes he heard a few words of her song through the murmurs of the river. He never saw her as the first time again, and he never had a chance to talk to her, but he could never forget her. And he never stopped dreaming of her.

After a while, he saw her less and less often. He started fearing that she would disappear entirely. He grew sad and distraught, enough that his people started worrying about him. Not even the prospect of his upcoming birthday seemed to make him happy. In an attempt to cheer him up, his friend Déagol suggested that they go fishing on his birthday, and Sméagol halfheartedly agreed.

At first they had no luck, but then Déagol caught a fish. And what a fish! It would be more correct to say that the fish caught Déagol, for it dragged him into the river, and he could only save himself by letting it escape. But he had something in his hand when he came up. Sméagol asked what it was, and Déagol showed him: a ring, a golden ring, perfect in its simplicity.

It reminded him of her.

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><p>I told you it could work! Okay, so you have to assume Goldberry previously lived at Anduin, but there's no rule saying that she can't change river, is there? Maybe she moved northwards to get rid of her creepy stalker Gollum. Given the impression she made on Frodo, I think hobbits are pretty susceptible to her charms.<p> 


	7. Morniello: OrodrethThuringwethil

Okay, so I woke up in the middle of the night with what seemed like a good idea at the time. You know how it is, right? In dreams, all sort of weird things seem like good ideas. This is one of those things.

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><p><strong>Morniello<strong>

Orodreth was, more than anything else, tired.

He wasn't sure why he had been given the post of commander in Minas Tirith. What he was good at was listening to people and suggesting compromises. Taking decisions wasn't his strongest side; whenever he almost had picked an option he got caught up in thinking about its downsides. This made him an excellent advisor, but a rather awful leader. In other words, he should not have been in charge of a small fortress currently being attacked by Morgoth and his armies of orcs, wargs and bats. But he was.

The situation was hopeless, and he knew it. He assumed that they would have to make a valiant last stand, and he suspected that he should be making rousing speeches and encouraging his men to fight to their last breath, but he had never been good at public speeches and he had always thought that last stands were rather pointless. He would fight to his death, of course, but he didn't see why he should be enthusiastic about it. And if any of his men decided that they would rather spend their last hours playing cards or whatever they did to enjoy themselves... well, he could hardly blame them. What use did the dead have for glory? Or the living, for that matter?

Orodreth sighed. Maybe he should go and see if it was still dark outside. By his calculations, it should be about mid-afternoon, but since three days ago Minas Tirith had been wrapped in a dark cloud. It didn't exactly help to keep everybody's spirits up. As he dragged his feet up the stairs, Orodreth wished - neither for the first nor for the last time - that he had stayed in Valinor.

When he reached the battlement, he found that it was still dark. Of course. What had he expected? It was raining, too. Orodreth pulled his cloak closer around him and amused himself for a moment by imagining the orcs complaining about being soaking wet and arguing with their superiors about getting extra rations of alcoholic beverages to keep themselves warm. But then he heard a wolf howl and stopped; it was hard to joke about your enemies when they were so close, right beneath you, and you could hear their harsh voices screaming curses at you and their swords clink and their machines creak as they prepared yet another attack, maybe the last one, let it be the last one, let there be an _ending_...

Orodreth was interrupted in his thoughts by something soft and leathery hitting him in the face. Without thinking, he grabbed it and threw it away. It hit the floor with a nasty little sound composed of a soft thud, a couple of cracks like the bones of some small and helpless animal breaking, and a wailing sigh. Orodreth looked at it. A bat. A spy of the enemy or just an animal going about its business? He picked it up. It squeked and tried to bite him.

"Stop that," he said. "I'm not going to hurt you."

The bat stopped struggling. It felt small and soft and helpless in his hands. He examined it with his fingers, searching for broken bones. Although the little animal wailed quietly, it didn't attempt to bite him again. That was probably a bad sign, he thought. An ordinary animal wouldn't have remained calm. A vampire, then; an evil spirit in a bat-fell. An enemy.

"You've broken both your wings," he said. "Well, I suppose it would be more correct to say that I have broken them."

The miserable creature looked up at him with large dark eyes.

"I guess I should kill you," said Orodreth. "Fling you from the tower, let you tumble down through the darkness to be skewered on the spears on your own allies..." He shook his head. "So much death. Doesn't it ever strike you as pointless?"

The bat remained still in his hands. He could feel its heart beating. Orodreth sighed.

"Let's get out of the rain," he said.

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><p>It was three days later, and Orodreth was sitting in his chamber, doing paperwork. Even during a siege, there were administrative duties to take care off. Normally he didn''t like them, but now anything that approached normality felt like a relief.<p>

"You know what I would like?" he said to the small bat that was huddling on his desk. "A garden."

Somehow the bat seemed to be listening attentively, although this expression was probably only a result of its natural anatomy. All bats do, after all, have large eyes and ears. But Orodreth liked the way it looked at him with apparent intense concentration, and he had gotten into the habit of talking to it. He had wondered briefly whether this was a sign of madness, but then he had decided that the orc army outside was a bigger problem than his mental health, and as long as he held out it didn't matter if he went insane in the process.

"Nothing fancy, mind you," he said. "Just a small garden. I would grow things in it. Apples and strawberries and... and potatoes."

"Lord Orodreth!" A man threw open the doors of his chambers and stood there in the doorway, water dripping from his clothes. "Lord Orodreth! Another attack!"

Orodreth rose and, stopping only to grab his sword, hurried out after the man. The small bat was left alone on the desk, with what seemed to be a curiously thoughtful expression in its black eyes.

It was late evening when Orodreth made his way back to his chamber, almost falling asleep on his feet. They had managed to deflect the attack, but it had been a close call. The end could not be far away now.

Perhaps it was even closer than he had thought. Distracted by exhaustion and dark thoughts, he did not notice the stranger in his room until he had already closed the door behind him. She was sitting at his desk, where he had left the bat, and she had the same dark eyes as the animal had had. Her face was pale and surrounded by hair as black as the starless night outside.

"Do you fear me?" she said.

Orodreth sighed.

"Please," he said, "I have been on my feet since dawn, or I would have been if there had been a dawn, and I have spent a considerable amount of the day in battle. I am tired to the bone. If you are going to kill me, do it now and be done with it. Spare me the drama."

"You saved my life," said the woman.

"Yes. Making bad decisions seems to run in my family. Are you going to kill me or not?"

"I am not that ungrateful," said the woman. "You have nothing to fear from me."

"Well, that's nice," said Orodreth. He pulled out his chair and sat down behind the desk. The woman remained seated, staring at him.

"You are not a prisoner, you know," he said. "You are free to leave. I assume your wings have healed."

She kept staring at him. He couldn't help noticing that, for an evil spirit of darkness, she was rather beautiful.

"Why did you save me?" she said.

"Why not?" said Orodreth. "We are vastly outnumbered already. One more enemy will not make much of a difference."

She didn't take her eyes of him. Orodreth had never seen eyes like that before. They were dark and deep, like some underground lakes in a cave where no sunlight had ever entered.

"I do not understand," she said.

"I don't expect you to," he said.

"I do not understand _you_," she said. "Even though I have been watching you for days, I don't understand you. You have no desire for glory or treasure or revenge. You do not even have any hope. Why do you fight?"

Orodreth looked at her in silence.

"What else can I do?" he finally said.

"That is no answer. Do you hate us?"

"No," said Orodreth, "I pity you. I pity us all."

The woman smiled. It was a strange little smile; fragile, somehow, as if she was on the brink of breaking into tears.

"I..." she said. "I hope you get your garden."

She stretched out her hand towards him. Orodreth took it.

* * *

><p>It may only have been his imagination, but it seemed to Orodreth that the sky was a little bit lighter the next morning. Before it had been as if the sun had disappeared; now he felt sure that it was there. Hidden behind the dark clouds, certainly, but there.<p>

He found Thuringwethil waiting for him at his desk.

"I cannot give you your garden," she said, "but I can give you something else."

"You have given me enough already."

"You saved my life," she said. "Let me save yours."

"How do you propose to do that?" said Orodreth. "I will not abandon my men. You know that."

"Leave it to me," said Thuringwethil. "Lead your men into an attack towards the south. You will break through the enemy lines, I promise you that."

"Leave Minas Tirith?" said Orodreth. "Abandon my post?"

"It is your choice," said Thuringwethil.

Orodreth stared at the floor in silence. Then he nodded.

Thuringwethil walked over to the window and opened it. She turned around and looked at him, for one last time.

"Farewell," she said.

A bat flew out into the compact darkness surrounding Minas Tirith. Orodreth closed the window behind it.

"Farewell," he whispered.

* * *

><p>I don't like Orodreth. I am not a fan of hurtcomfort. I hate vampire romances. So why is this the longest story in this collection so far?


	8. Faithless: AragornFinduilas

No, not that Finduilas, the other one: Finduilas of Dol Amroth, Denethor's wife. Let me suggest an explanation for her grieving herself to death...

* * *

><p><strong>Faithless<strong>

It is a long-standing tradition among us to name children after historical figures, the protagonists of the great tales of old. Lately I have been wondering why. Is it because we wish to bestow some of their heroic qualities upon our children? But is it not just as likely that we doom them to the same tragic fates as their namesakes?

I was happy to be Denethor's betrothed. So where did this other love come from? Unbidden it sneaked into my heart, like a thief in the night. Now my thoughts are drawn to Thorongil as a compass needle to the north, and I cannot stop dreaming of him any more than I can stop my heart from beating. The worst is that he knows; I can see it in his eyes. He knows it, and he does not return my feelings, and he pities me for my foolish love.

Denethor has never liked Thorongil. I think he sees him as a rival; they are too much alike, both natural leaders, both so proud and strong. I am sure Thorongil has no intention of usurping Denethor's place; he is a far too noble man for that. Even so, Denethor's suspicions do not hit very far from the mark. Thorongil is true and faithful... but I am not. There is nothing I can do about it: my previous affection for Denethor has been overshadowed by this new and treacherous love.

But I am not going to make the same mistakes as the first Finduilas. Denethor is a good and noble man, he will one day become steward of Gondor, and he loves me. What more can I ask for? I will marry him, and bear him sons, and one day I will stop crying myself to sleep.

I will forget Thorongil. It was a dream, nothing more.

* * *

><p>Honestly, Éowyn cannot be the first one to get her heart broken by Aragorn.<p>

Also, I just realized that this is the third time I write the internal monologue of a woman comparing two romantic interests, and now I feel a bizarre need to assure you that this does not in any way reflect my own life.


	9. The Origin of Dolphins: UinenHuan

Coming back to this flock of stories* after a short absence, I will resume it with a traditional Numenorean children's tale. I'm not very happy with this one, honestly, but it is certainly unlikely enough.

*I am in love with the expression "flock of stories", and don't care that it isn't correct at all. In fact, I am seriously considering going back and changing the introduction from "collection" to "flock". Abusing collective nouns is such tremendous fun.

* * *

><p><strong>The Origin of Dolphins<strong>

In the sea, once upon a time, there was a Maia named Uinen. She had the longest hair in the world. It was so long that it had to be spread across all the seas of the world; the cold ones and the warm ones, the stormy ones and the calm ones, in the west and the east and the north and the south - in every sea was Uinen's hair. You have seen it yourself, I am sure, although you may not have known that it was Uinen's hair you saw, because we usually call it seaweed.

Uinen had a husband named Ossë, who was a Maia too. He had a terrible temper, but Uinen herself was a most kind lady, the friend of sailors everywhere. No sailor thinks of Ossë as a friend, you see, even though all respect him. He cannot be trusted; he has such a terrible temper, and when he gets angry he storms and rages and howls and growls and tears up the sea and the sky, and then we get storms, which are very dangerous _especially _if you are on a ship, because then you can get shipwrecked and drown.

One day, when Ossë was storming and raging and howling and growling in a sea in the far far south, Uinen came upon a strange sight on the shores of Valinor. It was a young elfling, sleeping under a tree with his bow in his lap, and a dog by his side. You may not think this is a very strange sight, and I grant you it wouldn't have been, if it hadn't been for the size of the dog. It was enormous! It was humungous! It was the biggest dog Uinen had ever seen, and I think it was bigger than any dog you have seen, too; it had eyes like saucers and teeth like knives, and was so big that you could have ridden it.

Uinen didn't get scared of the dog, because even though it was a very very big dog, with eyes and saucers and teeth like knives, it also looked like a friendly dog; but she did get curious. So she rose out of the sea, with her hair trailing behind her like seaweed, and asked the dog who it was and what it was doing there. And the dog answered her in the language of thought, which is heard without being spoken, and mastered only by the wisest - but Uinen, you must remember, was a Maia, and a very wise one, so of course she could speak it. The dog's name was Huan, she learned, and he was there on a hunting trip with his master, the elfling who was sleeping under the tree.

Huan was actually a Maia too, which is why he could speak the language of thought. He and Uinen became great friends, and spoke to each other very much, though always in the language of thought, because Huan could only speak in the Elven tongue three times in his life, and he thought he might need those later - and he did, but that is another story, which I am not going to tell you tonight.

Uinen and Huan became very good friends, as I said, because Uinen had actually gotten a bit lonely in the great big seas. Ossë did not speak to her very much, you see, because he was nearly always busy howling and growling and raging and causing storms somewhere in the world. Huan was a little bit lonely too, because although he loved his master, he could not speak to him, and he did not want to waste his three times - which was wise, because he _did _need them later.

When Huan and Uinen had known each other for some time, they became the best friends in the world; and then, they became a bit more than friends, and they had children together. Ossë didn't notice, because he was busy raging and storming and growling and howling in a great sea in the east. It was very fortunate for the poor sailors there that Ossë didn't notice, because otherwise that storm would have been even greater - and it was still the worst storm they had had in a thousand years.

The children of Uinen and Huan were the first dolphins, and they went to live in the sea with their mother, where they spent their days swimming and playing and jumping and diving, without Ossë ever finding out where they came from. You must never tell him, because then he might get so hideously angry that he tears up all the sea at once, and nobody will be able to set sail until he has calmed down, which could take a very long time.

And _that _is the origin of dolphins.

* * *

><p>Yes, this is a bad attempt to imitate the Just So Stories. My apologies to Kipling. And my apologies to the Teleri, whom I originally attributed this tale too, before I realized that it was too negative towards Ossë. So now I'm blaming the Numenoreans instead.<p>

Also, this does not count as bestiality because I made Huan into a Maia. It's not at all sick. Nope.


	10. Wine to Vinegar: HalbaradLobelia

I'm finding that the hardest part of these crack pairings isn't justifying the romance in itself, it's justifying the two characters meeting in the first place. That's why it took so long to assemble this story. Maybe I should just have them meet in an inn next time.

* * *

><p><strong>Wine to Vinegar<strong>

It was a generally acknowledged truth that Lobelia Bracegirdle was the most beautiful girl born in Hardbottle in living memory. It was also generally acknowledged - though in a lower voice, in case one of her numerous relatives was listening - that she was the worst-behaved one. At thirty-one years of age, Lobelia showed neither interest nor talent for the skills valued in a young hobbit girl; when she cooked she burned things, when she mended socks she left uncomfortable budges, and when she cleaned the floor her mother had to watch her like a hawk, lest she scrubbed it quickly and then ran off before anyone could point out all the spots she had missed.

"I don't know what to do with that girl!" said Mrs Hardbottle to her husband one evening when Lobelia had once again run off after dinner. "I really don't! She'll be the death of me."

Mr Hardbottle finished litting his pipe before answering.

"What has she done now?" he said.

"I told her to do the washing-up," said Mrs Hardbottle, "and I suppose she did, after a fashion. But you'd think a girl of thirty-one would know that it's not enough to drop the plates in the water and pick them up again! Now I'll have to do it all over again. And tonight when I was going to finish that jacket for our Dora's new baby, it could be any day now..." She collapsed into the armchair next to her husband's with a bitter sigh.

"Don't be too hard on her, dear," said Mr Hardbottle with an apologetic smile. "She's young. It's no wonder she was in a rush to go and see her friends."

"That's easy for you to say," said Mrs Hardbottle. "You've always been too soft with her. She's almost of age, and old enough to know better! People will say I haven't raised her properly. Who's going to marry her, I wonder, the poor fellow will be in for a shock when he finds out her idea of house-keeping!" And Mrs Hardbottle looked around proudly at her own well-ordered home.

"She's no bad girl," said Mr Hardbottle, sucking on his pipe, "she's young and high-spirited, that's all. I'm sure she'll settle down just fine. Leave the dishes for tomorrow, dear, I'll help you with them then."

If Mrs Bracegirdle's thoughts were occupied with her daughter, the opposite was very much not the case. Lobelia's full attention was at that moment being paid to one of her friends, who was talking about the dwarves he had met in the inn last night.

"...and they ran into goblins in the mountains," he said. "Only a small band, fortunately, but one of them got a nasty hit on the head all the same. Then they had to take a road further south than they had planned so as to not run into trolls."

"Goblins and trolls, eh?" said another young hobbit. "They really do exist, then?"

"Of course they exist!" said the first speaker. "What did you think Bandobras Took fought against, windmills?"

"I always thought they were a sort of fairytale," said a hobbit girl with big blue eyes. "They seemed too horrible to be true."

"There are plenty of horrible things in the world," said a third boy. "There just aren't any here."

"Close enough, though," said the first boy. "They say there are trolls up north; one of them might wander in here if he got hungry..."

The blue-eyed girl shivered.

"Stop it, Tom," said the second boy, "you're scaring the girls."

"I'm not afraid of trolls," said Lobelia haugthily.

"That's easy for you to say here and now," said Tom, "but I bet you wouldn't be as brave if you were out alone at night and heard a strange noise behind you."

"Don't be silly," said the third boy. "There aren't any trolls or goblins in the Shire. Any strange noise you hear behind you is more likely to be someone's pig who's escaped."

"Outside the Shire, then," said Tom, somewhat flustered.

"Why would Lobelia be outside the Shire alone at night?" said the third boy.

"That's the trouble with you, Ned," said Tom, "you haven't got any imagination. It doesn't matter why. All I'm saying is that _if _she was, she wouldn't be so sure of herself."

"I would, though," said Lobelia, "and I'll prove it to you any day of the week, Tom. Just say the word."

* * *

><p>Lobelia made good on her word three weeks later, when she had obtained her parents' reluctant permission to go on a camping trip with her friends. The company was the same as the night the idea had been raised: Lobelia, Tom, his brother Hugo, Ned, and the blue-eyed girl, whose name was Daisy, and who was less than thrilled about the whole thing.<p>

"I'm sure our parents wouldn't have let us go if we'd told them we were going outside the Shire," she said nervously.

"Of course they wouldn't," said Lobelia, "that's why I told you not to tell them." Seeing that this response only served to make Daisy more nervous, she added, "It's not _lying_, really. They never asked, did they?"

"At any rate, _we _aren't going to leave the Shire," said Ned, "so don't you worry."

"We aren't?" said Hugo. "I thought that was the point."

"No, the point was that Lobelia would be _alone_ outside the Shire," said Tom. "She wouldn't be alone if we were going with her, would she? We'll just camp at the border."

And so they did. They reached the northern outskirts of the Shire on a gloriously sunny day, and spent they rest of it searching for a place to stay and, once they had found it, setting up their camp. All of it was done at a comfortable pace, with plenty of breaks for eating. Daisy's uneasiness melted away in the sunshine, and she had to admit that this trip was really very pleasant, especially with the way Ned kept smiling at her.

When the sun started getting close to the horizon, Lobelia left her friends and, as agreed, set out northwards alone. Tom's last words rang in her ears as she walked. "If you run into a troll or goblin, scream and we'll try to come and help you!" Tom was stupid, she told herself. If she ran into a troll, how exactly would they be able to help her? Five hobbits wouldn't have better odds than one; that would only give the troll a bigger dinner. Actually she could probably deal with it better herself; trolls were big and clumsy and she'd be able to hide from it easily. Or even better, she could keep sneaking up behind it and calling out, and trick it into searching for her until the sun got up. How surprised her friends would be when she showed them the troll-turned-to-stone the next day!

Lobelia Bracegirdle was a very confident young lady.

* * *

><p>That night, Lobelia woke up suddenly in the certainty that someone was watching her. She didn't panic. Her first thought was that one of the others, probably that idiot Tom, had sneaked up on her to try and scare her. Well, two could play that game. Feigning that she was still asleep, Lobelia padded the ground next to her hand until she found a small stone. Perfect. She grabbed it and threw it with all her power into some nearby bushes. Without waiting to see what reaction it caused in her unknoown onlooker, she snuck behind the trunk of the tree she had been sleeping under and, as quickly and silently as she could, moved behind the one next to it, and the next one...<p>

...only to run right into the arms of one of the Big Folk.

He seemed to be almost as surprised as she was. He grabbed her and held her at arm's length.

"Why, this is a sight I have never seen before," he said. "A hobbit girl, sleeping all alone in the woods at night! What are you doing here, little one? Have you run away from home?"

"Let me go and I'll tell you," said Lobelia, more agressively than she had meant to. She did not like being called 'little one'.

"Certainly," said the man, and released his grip. Lobelia looked up at her attacker. How tall he was! His features were hard to make out in the faint moonlight, but she thought they would be fairly handsome. He had dark hair, and on his grey cloak a silver brooch glimmered.

"I've fulfilled my part of the bargain," he said. "Now tell me what you are doing here."

Lobelia explained her bet to him. When she had finished, he shook his head.

"You had better go back to your friends," he said. "I'll escort you."

"I'm not going back!" said Lobelia. "I don't want them to think I'm afraid when I'm not!"

"You would be if you were wiser," said the man. "This is no place for a young girl like you."

"I'm not a little girl," said Lobelia. She stretched to her full height, which was still sadly insufficient when compared to the stranger's. "I'm almost thirty-two."

The man could not hide his surprise.

"Then you are older than me," he said, "and yet I seem to have more sense. Go back to the Shire-"

"I won't," said Lobelia. She considered stamping her foot, but decided that would look too much like a toddler temper tantrum. "If you absolutely have to escort me back, you can do it in the morning."

* * *

><p>An hour or so later, Halbarad Dúnadan sighed and put another twig on the fire. He had been completely unable to make the hobbit girl - whose name was Lobelia, she had informed him - change her mind. In the end, he had decided that the best thing to do was to simply stay and guard her until the night was over.<p>

"Halbarad," said the girl.

"Yes?"

"Oh, I didn't want anything, I was just tasting the name. Halbarad. That's a Big Folk name, is it? It's strange, but it sounds nice."

Halbarad didn't know what to answer her, so he didn't.

"It's nice to have a fire," said Lobelia, holding out her hands towards it. "I didn't dare to lit one because I didn't want to get noticed."

"Fire attracts some things, but keeps away others," said Halbarad. "One needs to know when to lit one and when not to."

"I suppose so," said Lobelia. "You live here, don't you? In the wilderness?"

Halbarad nodded.

"You must have had a lot of adventures," said Lobelia. There was a shade of envy in her voice that Halbarad missed entirely.

"A few, I suppose," he said.

"Can't you tell me about them?" said Lobelia.

As several young Shire-hobbits had discovered, it was very hard to deny Lobelia anything. She had a way of looking at you that almost always got her what she wanted. Halbarad started telling her, somewhat clumsily at first, those few episodes of his life he thought could be interesting. When he had finished, he told her some legends of the Dúnedain. Lobelia could be an excellent listener when she wanted to; she let her eyes sparkle with interest and said "Oh!" and "Ah!" in all the right places, although she firmly maintained that nothing in his stories had actually scared her.

At last Halbarad became quiet.

"It sounds absolutely splendid, all of it," said Lobelia longingly. Halbarad didn't answer her. He seemed to be comtemplating her face very seriously.

"What is that silver star on your cloak?" said Lobelia.

"It's the sign of the Dúnedain," said Halbarad. "My people."

"It's beautiful," said Lobelia.

"So you like jewelry?" said Halbarad.

"Oh yes, a lot," said Lobelia. "One day I'm going to be rich and have plenty of jewelry. And beautiful dresses, too. You'll see. It won't matter that I can't mend socks very well." She gasped.

"You're tired," said Halbarad. "Sleep. I'll keep watch."

"You know, I think I will," said Lobelia. "Wake me up tomorrow, will you?"

Halbarad woke Lobelia up at first sunshine the next morning. He insisted on following her back because, as he said, "it would be a waste to have guarded you all night only to have you get eaten by wolves the moment I took my eyes off you". They didn't talk any more on the way, not until Lobelia halted him when they were almost there.

"Don't go any further," she said. "If they see you, they might start complaining about how I wasn't actually alone, and I don't want that. It wasn't my fault you turned up and insisted on playing the gentleman."

"Very well, then," said Halbarad, giving in to Lobelia's stubborn glare. "I'll let you go the rest of the way yourself."

Lobelia took a few steps. The she turned around and looked at him.

"I don't suppose you'd let me go with you and have adventures instead?"

She had done a too good job of keeping her tone light and her voice steady. Halbarad laughed at what he thought was a joke, so Lobelia laughed too, as though she had never meant it seriously. Then she turned again and left.

Halbarad kept still, looking after her until he could no longer make out her shape among the trees. Then he shook his head.

"Don't be silly," he said aloud to himself. "You heard her. She wants to be a rich lady. And you are supposed to protect the Shire-folk, not put them in danger."

* * *

><p>And now the longest story in this flock is no longer a vampire romance, yay!<p> 


	11. Copper, Silver: NerdanelCeleborn

For once I have someone else to blame for my madness - this pairing was suggested by Galad Estel. It didn't inspire me at all at first, but the idea must have been planted in my head and left to hibernate until now. So here you have it - Nerdanel and Celeborn.

* * *

><p><strong>Copper, Silver, Fire, Gold<strong>

What could have been. They can see it in each other's eyes.

If they had met before, a long time ago when they were young and the world was not as worn. If they had met each other, instead of the others. There could have been something, then. They never mention it, of course, but nor do they need to. Their minds seem to be so well aligned that they almost always know, without making a conscious effort, what the other one is thinking. Most often they will be thinking the same thing.

The light can be blinding. The fire that warms can burn and destroy. They were both drawn to flames that burned brighter than their own. Neither regrets it, as such. It is part of their pasts, and thus part of who they are. Both are old enough to know that you cannot change who you are, and wise enough not to want to.

But they cannot help but wonder. If they had met before, could they have loved each other as much as they loved those they married? Probably. It is only in comparison with the sun that the moon looks pale and weak. If the sun had never risen... It would have been a different sort of love, perhaps, but love nonetheless.

What would their lives had been like? More tranquil, certainly. They have never dreamed of greatness. There would have been no realms to rule, no great journeys, no adventures. They have never craved those things. Following another's trail of thought is enough of a journey for them, and all the realms they want they can build in their own minds. They would have been content with having each other.

Things could have been very different.

* * *

><p>Notice how I solved the getting-them-together problem by not mentioning anything about how and when they met? Rather clever of me, don't you think?<p> 


	12. Brighter than Jewels: GlaurungMorwen

**Brighter Than Jewels**

Glaurung had never seen a mind like hers. He had always considered himself something of an expert on the matter of minds.

Her son had been a fool. A brave fool, certainly, and a heroic one, but a fool nonetheless. The sort of mind that is well-guarded against a direct attack, but easily steered by a few words from one who knows what he is doing.

Her daughter had been a challenge. She had put up quite a fight, opposing him for each inch of her mind he conquered, never giving in for a moment. He had not expected that a young girl would be such a worthy opponent, but there could never have been any serious doubts about the outcome of their duel of wills.

But she... he had never seen a mind like hers. Never before had he realized how brittle his gems were, how soft and weak his gold.

And he _wanted _her, the way a dragon wants things, urgently and desperately and greedily. He wanted to have her _now _and keep her for himself forever. A mind like hers would be the crowning jewel of his hoard.

She escaped him. She defied him and she fled into the wilderness, and no matter how eagerly he sought her he could not find her. He was not surprised; he had never made the mistake to think that conquering her would be easy. But he was displeased. Someone would pay for this.

A dragon's desires may arise suddenly, but that does not mean that they soon pass. Rather they grow stronger over time, gnawing away at his greedy heart; the obsession only increases with the years.

Glaurung still wanted her. One day, he would have her. Until then, he guarded in his mind the glimpses of her he had caught; the most treasured pearls among his memories.

Who would have thought that hidden beneath that dark hair was a mind stronger than steel, more incorruptable than gold, brighter than jewels.


End file.
